Vineyard Deceit

by Philip Craig

  23

  I drove down to the Wasque reservation parking lot. A cruiser and some other cars were there. There were some young uniformed police officers down below the dropoff on the south side of the parking lot. I stopped and spotted Jake Spitz standing by a car, watching the young police officers walking around getting sand in their shoes. I went over and joined him.

  “Looking for Blunt’s revolver?”

  “Yep. If Nagy is telling the truth, Blunt may have ditched the revolver to confuse things a bit more than they’re already confused. If he did, it may be down there somewhere. They found him right about here.”

  “If he dug a hole and buried the gun, you’ll have a hell of a time finding it.”

  “We’re rounding up some metal detectors. If it’s there, we’ll find it.”

  “What did you and Nagy and Blunt talk about that Sunday night before Blunt killed himself, if that’s what he did?”

  He glanced at me. “The case. What we knew. What we didn’t know. What we might find out. Looks like Blunt was playing games with us, but we didn’t know that then.”

  “You didn’t know much about anything, did you?”

  “We knew that the real necklace and the pastes were in the safe before the party and the necklace was not in the safe when Blunt and the Damons went to get it the night of the party. We didn’t think anyone had opened the safe in between times. We agreed that Blunt was the logical suspect, but he’d insisted on being searched after the theft and hadn’t had the opportunity to pass the necklace off to anybody before the search, so we were pretty stumped.”

  “Blunt didn’t mind being a suspect?”

  “Now we know why, don’t we? No, he didn’t mind. It was only logical that he would be, after all. Why do you want to know what we talked about?”

  “So you reviewed what you knew, which wasn’t much. Then what?”

  “Then we talked about what to do next. Who we should question. SDL people on the island, their sympathizers, you know, college professors and student activists, other enemies the Padishah might have, professional thieves who might have pulled the job, fences who could handle such a hot item, collectors who might have sponsored the theft. We talked about some people like that and made some plans to track them down and ask questions. Why do you want to know?”

  “Because I want to know why Willard Blunt suddenly decided to tell all to Colonel Nagy and then shoot himself. I mean, I can understand why a sick old man might decide to kill himself rather than go on experiencing increasing pain until he died, but it all happened so suddenly. If Blunt wanted to kill himself, why didn’t he do it last week? If he wanted to confess, why didn’t he do it with you at seven o’clock instead of three hours later with Nagy?”

  “I don’t know. Why?”

  “Because he learned something that night that he didn’t know before? Maybe at that meeting with you? And he had to figure out what to do with the information?”

  “And what he did was confess that he stole the necklace and then shoot himself with Nagy’s gun? It makes more sense to think that Nagy stole the necklace and shot Blunt and made up that story he told you.”

  “Except Nagy is sitting over here on Chappy drinking wine instead of being off in Rio spending the money he’d get from the emeralds.”

  “I thought of that too,” nodded Spitz. “A puzzler, all right.”

  “So you guys talked about the SDL and agreed that you’d track down any members here on the island. Catch any?”

  “Nobody who doesn’t have an alibi.”

  “You talk about anybody else I might know?”

  “Kingfish Cassidy. You know Kingfish?”

  “No.”

  “Jewel thief. This smells like his work. But he’s in jail in Atlanta, it turns out. Augie Newsome?”

  “No.”

  “Boston fence. Owns a jewelry firm down on Washington Street. Very slick. Handles some big items. We almost had him a couple of times. But Augie’s in Florida. New wife. Honeymoon. The store is closed. Dr. Hamdi Safwat?”

  “Him I’ve heard of. Professor at Weststock. Wrote a book.”

  “Books.”

  “Books. Big anti-Padishah intellectual.”

  “Yeah. Friend of Willard Blunt’s too. Hamdi would probably love to get his hands on the necklace, but he was at a shindig for summer faculty that night. College president’s house. Wally Farmer?”

  “Who’s Wally Farmer?”

  “Wally Farmer is a second-story man who can open a safe like that one in Damon’s house in about thirty seconds. But Wally walked in front of a kid riding a bicycle a couple of weeks ago and got his right hand busted. In a cast up to his elbow. Out of comish. Shall I go on?”

  ‘None of them panned out, eh?”

  “Not so far. Now what can you tell me?”

  I told him about the four young Sarofimians.

  “Well, Jesus Christ,” he said. “You let ’em go?”

  “Zee didn’t press charges. What would you have done, run them in for throwing some firecrackers over Damon’s fence?”

  “You’re some cop, you are.”

  I gave him the list of their names and their passport numbers. “You can find them if you need to. I don’t think they know any more than they told me.”

  “Maybe not, but I’ll check them out anyway. Some of these young revolutionary types are pretty clever and not noted for telling cops true tales. Well, at least we don’t have to wonder about who did the kidnapping anymore. And we were right about one thing, anyway: the kidnapping was hooked to the theft. What do you think Mrs. Madieras was supposed to know?”

  “Beats me.”

  “And where did Blunt go after he left Nagy and me that Sunday night? He went off to see somebody. Maybe that’s where he learned whatever it was that made him decide to confess and kill himself. If that’s what he did.”

  “He went to see Amelia Muleto. They were old friends.” I told him what Amelia had said of the visit.

  “He didn’t confess and he didn’t tell her he intended suicide?”

  “No. She said he looked frail and kissed her when he left. She thinks now that he was saying goodbye for the last time. If she’s right, it means that he’d already decided to die that night.”

  “Maybe she’s lying.”

  “Maybe everybody’s lying. I’ve known her for thirty years. I’d trust her with my life.”

  “Yeah. I wish they’d get here with those metal detectors. What’s next on your detecting agenda?”

  “Actually, I thought I’d do my laundry and then pickle some zucchini.”

  He looked at me. “That makes as much sense as anything,” he said with a grin.

  And that’s what I did, being careful to toss Zee’s clothes in with my other coloreds. While the solar drier beamed upon them, I pickled and bottled all of the zooks I could find, then froze most of my ripe tomatoes for winter use. I freeze them whole in plastic bags. By the time I had the toms in the freezer, the clothes on the line were dry and I took them in. I stuck my nose into Zee’s shirt. If Helga’s scent was there, I couldn’t smell it. I folded everything foldable and put it back in its place, found a Sam Adams in the fridge, and sat down at the phone.

  I got Dr. Hamdi Safwat’s phone number without any trouble, but nobody answered my call. Dr. Safwat was one of the few remaining human beings on earth without an answering machine. I interpreted this as an indication that he was a modest fellow who didn’t think he needed a record of all the people who telephoned him. I made another call, this one to Jasper Cabot. Jasper’s secretary answered, discovered who I claimed to be, and hooked me to her boss.

  “Yes, Mr. Jackson?”

  “I have a question. Do you want a report first?”

  “The question first.”

  “Do you know the name ‘Periezade’? I think it may be Sarofimian.”

  There was a silence at the end of the line. Then Jasper Cabot spoke in an expressionless voice. “I’ve not heard that name for many years. Peri
ezade Safwat was a young woman I knew in Sarofim. She was taken by the Padishah’s secret police, and I never saw her again.”

  Of course. That was it. “Yes. Now I remember. Her father protested and someone mutilated and killed him. Willard Blunt might have been in love with her. That fits. The elder sister of Hamdi Safwat . . .”

  “It is a Persian name of considerable antiquity. There are no doubt other Periezades in the world.”

  “I think this is the one.” I told him what Nagy had said of Blunt’s last conversation with him. Jasper Cabot listened without interruption.

  “Yes,” he said, when I was done. “I believe you’re right. Wergeld, as you no doubt know, is the price paid by the family of a killer to the family of the victim. Old German and Anglo-Saxon law. Blunt was of Anglo-Saxon ancestry. Very old family. Wergeld for Periezade. The necklace as payment for her life. Yes.”

  “He must have loved her more than you knew.”

  “To take revenge after forty-five years? So it would seem. He never married, you know.”

  “Maybe he was homosexual.”

  “Willard? Oh no. He was never interested in men. Not in that way. He liked women. Over the years he had many women friends. Some became mistresses. No, it’s as though the two women he could have married were denied him and after losing them he simply abandoned the idea of taking a wife. I assure you that many of our wives attempted to marry him off to some very wonderful women, but though Willard took some of them to his bed, he never proposed marriage to any of them.”

  “The other woman whom he might have married being Ameila Muleto?”

  “Amelia Stonehouse in those days. Yes. When she married young Raymond Muleto, her family was shocked, but I think Willard’s heart must have been broken, if I can use so old-fashioned a phrase. He never criticized her, however, but served her loyally throughout his life. She was always of special concern to him, and he personally took care of her inheritance.”

  “He continued to love her?”

  “There are such men. It would account for his bachelor life.”

  “Yes. The detail about Periezade makes Nagy’s story more convincing, doesn’t it? It’s not a name he would have made up. The girl disappeared almost fifty years ago.”

  “I agree. I’m therefore inclined to believe his tale. It would seem, then, that Willard did kill himself with Nagy’s gun.”

  “Why not with his own? And why the confession to Nagy?”

  “You are the detective, Mr. Jackson, not I. Have you other news that might clarify the issue?”

  I brought him up to date. The kidnapping interested him.

  “Willard a kidnapper too? My old friend was apparently not entirely the man I thought I knew. Kidnapping? Theft? Suicide? Perplexing . . .”

  “It ties together somehow. I’m just not sure how.”

  “And Willard Blunt is at the center of it all. I am concerned about the content of the telephone call you received. Do you think that your life and that of Mrs. Madieras are actually in danger? Perhaps you should drop the case.”

  “If we’re in danger, I don’t think it’s because of the work I’m doing for you. I think it’s something personal.”

  “And you spoke to Colonel Nagy about it.”

  “Yes. If the Padishah is the bad guy, maybe he’ll just forget about Zee and me and go home, now that we’ve been warned. He won’t want to mess up relations between the U.S. and Sarofim.”

  “Not if he’s rational; but Colonel Nagy has apparently suggested that he is not, that he is a petulant child.”

  “But he can be controlled by his advisors. I hope.”

  “Yes. I hope so too, Mr. Jackson. Keep me advised of your progress. Have you received my check?”

  “I haven’t been to get the mail for a couple of days.”

  “Then I suggest that you go today.”

  I took that advice, and there was the check. I went right home and phoned Jeremy Fisher. “I want to come and have another look at your catboat,” I said.

  “You know where it is,” said Jeremy.

  “I do,” I said. “I’ll be right up.”

  24

  The catboat was in the barn behind Jeremy Fisher’s house. I parked in the yard, waved to Jeremy, who was sitting on his porch having a pipe and watching the traffic go by at the end of his driveway, and went in to see if the boat was still as desirable as it had been the last time I’d looked at it. It was. Perfect for cruising or fishing or just goofing around. Catboats are perhaps the best possible boats for day sailing around the shoaly waters south of Cape Cod. They can sail in very thin water, of which we have a lot around Martha’s Vineyard, can turn on a dime, and are so beamy that they heel very little in anything less than a gale. This one had a cuddy cabin with two bunks as well as the normal huge cockpit. It was gaff rigged and had an ancient eighteen-horse Evinrude hanging on an outboard-motor mount on the port transom. I had no difficulty imagining myself sailing down across the flats in Katama Bay or even fetching Nantucket on a fair day. Like many Vineyarders, I had never been to Nantucket. This boat would give me an excuse to go there.

  I went up to the house and sat beside Jeremy and did some initial dickering. He wanted more than I was willing or able to pay, so I offered him less than that. I inhaled his pipe smoke and agreed that the Vineyard was getting so dang many cars on it these days that you took your life in your hands just trying to get to the hardware store.

  He came down a little and I went up a little and things looked promising when I left.

  On the way home I thought of what Jasper Cabot had said and wondered if Nagy had really had his pistol taken away from him or whether, after Blunt told him that he had stolen the necklace, Nagy had shot him right there, then put the gun in his hand to make it look like suicide. I wondered if it made any difference who had killed Blunt, who was dying anyway. I also thought about how Blunt had managed the theft, if, indeed, he really had done it. I had a semi-idea about how it might have happened, but didn’t quite have it straight yet. One thing was certain: if Blunt had stolen the necklace, he’d either had help or the necklace was still on the island somewhere. Where? With the pistol under the sand somewhere where the Padishah of Sarofim would never find it? Why not? That would be a serious blow to the Rashads, and Blunt might well have wanted to give such a blow before he died.

  Too many options. William of Occam would have recommended the simplest one that accounted for everything. But which one was that? Where was old William when you really needed him?

  I had a surprise waiting for me at home. A cruiser in my yard. I parked beyond it and got out. The Chief and Jake Spitz and another man got out of the cruiser. None of their faces had much in the way of expression.

  “This is Mr. Wapple,” said the Chief. “He wants to talk to you.”

  Mr. Wapple put out his hand. He had an average sort of grip.

  “To get right to the point, sir,” he said, “I represent the White House. There are sensitive discussions going on in Washington regarding a certain foreign policy matter of which you may be generally aware. I’ve been asked to come up to the island here and request various parties involved in investigating last weekend’s theft and suicide to, as it were, not pause in their inquiries but pursue them with discretion until the negotiations in the Capitol can be completed. I’ve spoken to your Chief here, to Mr. Spitz’s superiors, and to Mr. Jason Thornberry and have gained their cooperation. I hope I can count on yours as well, Mr. Jackson.” He smiled.

  “I’m working for Jasper Cabot,” I said. I glanced at the Chief. His face was blank.

  Mr. Wapple’s smile stayed on his face. “Yes, yes. I’m afraid that Mr. Cabot has been out of his office when I’ve tried to contact him, but I’m sure he will agree to my request when I do get in touch with him.”

  “Well, as soon as you do and he gives me the word, I’ll walk away from the whole thing.”

  “Maybe you shouldn’t wait,” said Spitz. “I mean, hey, they don’t want us to drop the ca
se, they just want us to stay off of the Padishah’s toes for a day or two. That right, Mr. Wapple?”

  Mr. Wapple’s smile faded a bit. “That’s right, Mr. Spitz.”

  “I’m the soul of discretion,” I said. “I never step on people’s toes. What’s happening here, Chief?”

  The Chief got a little red in the face. It looked more like anger than embarrassment. He stuck his pipe in his mouth. “We’re always glad to cooperate with the White House,” he muttered.

  “I’m not completely convinced that you don’t step on toes,” said Mr. Wapple, his smile now only a faint line across his face. “I’m told that you’re not averse to causing trouble.”

  “For instance?”

  “You made threats to the Padishah. That issue has come up in the Washington discussions. We don’t need any more of that sort of thing.”

  “I didn’t know about that,” said the Chief, taking his pipe from his mouth.

  “I didn’t either,” I said. “I did mention that if he didn’t take his hands off of Helga Johanson she might kick his balls up into his brain cavity, but I don’t think that I threatened him. I’d guess that the Padishah’s advisors are spreading this story around as part of a negotiation for a better deal from Uncle Sam. Not that that’ll be difficult. Government guys like Mr. Wapple’s boss have a long tradition of supporting fascist governments as long as they’re nice to our military.”

  Wapple’s smile was now a memory. “And there’s the matter of your invasion of the house of the young Sarofimians this morning. You used your badge to gain illegal entry and then threatened your victims with a pistol. You’re liable to arrest on several counts. The President, as you know, ran on a strong law-and-order plank, but he also deeply resents the unlawful use of police authority.” He leaned slightly forward. “We cannot afford any additional actions of this sort, sir.” He turned to the Chief. “Tell him.”

  The Chief looked me in the eye. “You used your badge illegally. You didn’t have a warrant. You waved a gun. You’re in trouble.”

  “Who told you all that?”

  He nodded at Spitz. “He told me what you told him. And Helga Johanson backed him up.”